


The Third Time

by MistressKat



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Ficlet, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Morning After
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 22:33:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13257993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressKat/pseuds/MistressKat
Summary: The third time Illya wakes up next to Napoleon Solo – both of them naked, limbs tangled together under the sheets – is the first time he doesn't simply run.





	The Third Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [arysteia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arysteia/gifts).



> Written as a fandom_stocking gift for arysteia. I hope this hits your fic like for enemies to lovers, first times (sort of!), and secret/forbidden relationships.

The third time Illya wakes up next to Napoleon Solo – both of them naked, limbs tangled together under the sheets – is the first time he doesn't simply run. Instead, he stays where he is, and tries to remember how to breathe, panic pushing at the back of his throat at every inhale. The air is thick and smells of sex, filling his lungs like syrup.  
  
He is so _warm_ , here in the messy double bed in a cheap hotel somewhere in South America, Napoleon's arm curved around his middle, warmer than he ever remembers being.  
  
Outside, there's a steady drone of traffic, vendors opening their stalls, their lilting Spanish reminding Illya that they are in Columbia. The sun is rising and the world is still turning, and later today they will meet Gaby to plan the best way to get to the current mark, all of this despite... even though... _unaffected_ by the fact that he slept with, _had sex with_ , Napoleon.  
  
Again. _'Thrice is a habit'_ , Illya thinks and has to bite down on hysterical laughter because it isn't funny and it isn't laughter either, a sound like sob trapped in his chest and he...  
  
"Breathe," Napoleon says. "Just breathe. It's alright. You're fine."  
  
_'No,'_ Illya thinks, _'I'm a disgrace'_ and the voice inside his head sounds like his first KGB trainer and even more like his father, and he wants to get away, to fall out of this bed and the strong circle of Napoleon's arms and run and run and _run_.  
  
Instead, he turns onto his side and curls into the sun-drenched covers, feeling hollowed out and yet so warm, and he _stays_.  
  
"That's it, there you go." Napoleon's voice is low but ordinary, like this is no strange thing. "That's good," he says and Illya would rebel at the words, at being called _'good'_ like a dog who's learned a new trick, but he is too busy focusing on the slow up-and-down drag of Napoleon's hand over his spine.  
  
"It's early still." Napoleon shuffles closer, just a little, tucking his knees into the bend of Illya's longer legs. "Why don't we get a bit more sleep?" He doesn't wait for an answer, breathing already falling into a steady rhythm, his hand coming to rest between Illya's shoulder blades.  
  
Behind the window, the sun is climbing higher. Illya watches the way the shadows shorten and feels the temperature slide toward true heat of the day, sweat starting to gather at the back of his neck, in the soft greases of his elbows. His eyelids are heavy and so very warm. He closes them with a shudder.  
  
The third time Illya wakes up with Napoleon, he makes a conscious decision to fall asleep with him as well.


End file.
